


Thespian Omens

by georgina_bulsara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Theatre, AmateurActor!Crowley, Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard, Community Theatre AU, Director!Aziraphale, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Single Parent Crowley but it's not the focus, StageManager!Anathema, as well as a bit of a disaster, mild swearing and no sexual content, small-town gossip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgina_bulsara/pseuds/georgina_bulsara
Summary: Aziraphale is an overzealous community theatre director, and Crowley is a landscape gardener who has somehow been convinced to audition for the lead role in a production at the Tadfield Playhouse.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 119
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Thespian Omens

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought that theatres are strange little universes of their own, and excellent settings for stories of all kinds. Here's my take on what a community theatre in Tadfield could be like. 'Tis a bit silly
> 
> Many thanks to [curtaincall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall) and [WantedFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WantedFangirl/pseuds/WantedFangirl) for beta-reading, and for making suggestions that vastly improved this!

Chocolate—it was such a particular flavour, sweet but also rich. It could be folded into so many different ingredients, but was perfect on its own as well. Reminiscent of holidays, especially Christmas and Easter.

Aziraphale was craving chocolate. In any form, really, just as long as it was cacao-derived.

In the small town of Tadfield, the only store within walking distance was the Little Waitrose convenience shop in the square. There wasn’t much in Tadfield—a church, a bank, a chemist’s, a tobacconist’s, a tourist office. There was even a local pub and a café—all the usual fare for a small village where everything was close-knit and friendly. Once a week there was an open-air market in the village square, where vendors from the surrounding areas sold fresh fish, vegetables, meat, baked goods, and handmade crafts.

The market wasn’t until Saturday though, and Aziraphale wanted chocolate now. There was an hour to kill before he headed over to the Tadfield Playhouse for their annual board meeting, leaving plenty of time for a quick trip to the shop. He was thinking of some Belgian chocolate, or perhaps those perfectly square Ritter sport bars. The marzipan one was his favourite. It was perfectly fine to have a little chocolate, as a snack, and then make something healthier later on in the evening.

Waitrose was open til 8 pm on weeknights, and the staff always decided to stock the shelves right before closing. Consequently, the chocolate and sweets aisle was woefully unequipped at the time Aziraphale wandered in. He stood pondering between milk chocolate and dark chocolate-almond before heading to the till.

Since Aziraphale had moved to Tadfield a few months ago, Waitrose had implemented two self-checkout machines. It was hardly necessary—there was rarely a queue, and most people in the town certainly weren’t going to be learning how to operate the machines any time soon. Aziraphale, having lived in London, was sufficiently familiar with the robotic voice and the rigid rules to follow so that she wouldn’t spout orders at you and then freeze your transaction. He also preferred not to have the entirety of his grocery-shopping habits exposed to the whole town—the gossip train in Tadfield was rampant. People talked. He wouldn’t put it past the shop clerks to spread a variety of untrue rumours about him based solely on the brand of pasta he bought.

Today, surprisingly, there was another customer at one of the machines. From the looks of him, he would’ve been better off waiting for the only on-duty worker to get back from the back of the shop. He was staring dumbly at the screen, holding a bag of green beans in one hand and a box of rice in the other. “Place the scanned item in the bag,” rang the monotonous voice of the machine.

The man put the green beans down, to which the voice immediately retorted, “Return unscanned items. Assistance is on the way.”

“Argghghngg,” sputtered the man, “I _did_ scan it, I punched the bloody number in.” Realising that it was pointless to talk back to a machine, he picked the bag of beans back up.

“Er, you have to weigh them, actually,” Aziraphale offered. He could tell the man was never going to figure it out on his own.

The man startled at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice and whipped around, only to fumble with the bag, beans tumbling out onto the unswept tiles of the shop floor.

“Ah _fuck_.” In a flash he was on the ground, sweeping the beans back into the plastic bag with his long hands. He looked to be about Aziraphale’s age, although he lacked any middle-age flab or troubled joints, evidenced by the ease with which he rose back up off the ground. “Do you work here, then?”

Aziraphale tore his eyes from the man’s surprisingly toned and tanned forearms to look at his face. He found it partially obscured by heavy-duty sunglasses, but the parts that he could see were quite striking—defined cheekbones, a strong nose sprinkled with freckles, chapped lips set in a thin line.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer the man’s question, but what came out instead was another question. “Do I look like I’m employed by this establishment?” He hadn’t meant it to come out so accusatory, but he’d been caught off guard by the man’s snarky tone. Most people in Tadfield, he’d found, were sickeningly friendly, at least to your face.

The tetchy customer shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know if you work here?” He turned back to the machine and jabbed aggressively at the screen, to no avail.

“I _can_ help you, however.” Aziraphale moved over to the other man’s checkout machine and took the bag of green beans from him. He punched the right buttons and then placed the bag to be weighed, moving it over to the bagging area once it had been recorded. He then took the box of rice out of the man’s hands and scanned that as well. “Just having rice and beans for dinner, then?”

The man grunted something that sounded like thanks, shoving his credit card unceremoniously into the machine. As soon as the payment was accepted, he was gone out the shop doors, an earthy scent lingering in his wake.

Aziraphale huffed before carrying out his own transaction. When he stepped out of the shop, he glanced down each street within eyesight but saw no trace of his red hair in any direction.

\---

Aziraphale Fell was a recent implant into the social fabric of Lower Tadfield. He’d retired fairly early, since he could, from his job as an editor. Living in London had been a thrill for his younger adult years, but now he craved the tranquility of a small town.

Tranquility was one thing, but Aziraphale still wanted to keep busy. He had immediately inserted himself onto the board at the local community theatre. Drama had been his main subject at school besides literature, and he regretted not having done anything related to it for so many years.

Editing was a rather solitary job, and Aziraphale had liked it that way. Besides going back and forth with publishers and authors, most days had seen Aziraphale alone in his study, reading. It was lovely. But being part of a play was different—the collaborative element of it was much more tangible. You would see people every day, experience how everyone’s efforts were leading towards the common goal of putting on a good show.

Aziraphale was looking forward to being heavily involved in the upcoming season. He particularly had his heart set on the director position—directing appealed quite a bit to him. Mainly because he hated being onstage, but also because he thought he’d good at it. Directing was a bit like editing—it wasn’t coming up with anything original, but rather taking a text that someone had already written, and influencing how an audience would receive it. There was certainly a lot more creative license with directing than with editing, something he looked forward to experimenting with.

Thankfully the theatre was also within walking distance—Aziraphale didn’t own a car, which was all well and good as long as he didn’t have to get out of town at an odd hour. The streets in Tadfield weren’t terribly busy, and walking along the cobbled roads was a pleasant activity so long as no one was going past the speed limit.

The board meeting was unnecessarily lengthy and frightfully boring, but Aziraphale got what he wanted out of it. He was so happy to be given a director’s role, and so relieved that the meeting was finally over, he even accepted an invitation to the pub from Michael, one of the board members.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself making painful small-talk with Michael, Uriel, and Alphonse, all involved with the theatre in some non-artistic capacity. They chatted idly about budgets and marketing while Aziraphale allowed his mind to wander back to the man he’d seen in Waitrose. Part of him felt that, even if the man had been incredibly curt and arguably quite rude, Aziraphale would prefer his company to those he was currently with.

Aziraphale took a sip of his drink. He generally disliked pubs, particularly rowdy ones. Over the din, he could barely hear the change in conversation topic. “Have you got any children, Aziraphale?” Michael asked him loudly from across the table.

“Er, no, I haven’t,” Aziraphale replied, expecting several intrusive follow-up questions. Instead, Michael proceeded to carry on with her monologue about what her sons had accomplished in the last several years.

Sensing that it was safe to zone out, Aziraphale turned his attention to the rest of the pub. He looked around, not surprised to see that he recognised nobody in the crowd. Then, over by the bar, he caught a glimpse of a shock of red hair.

Surely, it couldn’t be. The odds of seeing him again so soon had to be slim to none. Then again, Tadfield wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. And if there was a likelihood of running into someone in a small town, the pub had to be on the top of the list of places where it could happen.

Some bodies shifted and Aziraphale was able to get a clearer look at the bar. It certainly was the man from Waitrose. He was with two other men, one very pale and the other very dark. They were hunched over their drinks and presumably talking to each other, but it was hard to tell from the distance.

Oddly given the time of day, the man was still wearing sunglasses. He was turned away from Aziraphale, so he couldn’t make out his facial features, but Aziraphale remembered them being pleasant to look at.

For a split second, Aziraphale considered asking one of his companions who the man was. Small town, surely they knew who was who if they’d been here long enough. He thought better of it though, and turned back to his drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale noticed when the three men got up from the bar and walked towards the exit. The Waitrose man’s gait was very peculiar, almost as though he was trying to keep an invisible hula hoop around his hips as he walked. Aziraphale’s eyes flickered over him until he’d gone through the door and was out of sight.

Later, back at home and brewing tea, Aziraphale found himself still racking his memory to recall what the man in Waitrose looked like. Tall, slim. Dark auburn hair long enough to tie back. Dressed in grungy clothes, as if he’d been working outdoors. Clearly quite flexible, if not downright graceful. Why hadn’t Aziraphale ever seen him around town before? Was he a newcomer as well? A reclusive villager? Aziraphale was distracted enough by his meandering thoughts about the man to burn the roof of his mouth when he sipped his tea.

* * *

Aziraphale lived in what he liked to think of as a cottage; actually, it was more of a regular house that had a significant back garden that used to be occupied by chickens. The previous owner hadn’t maintained the garden in the best condition, but it was perfect for Aziraphale, who only used it for the occasional spot of tea outdoors, when it wasn’t too hot out.

Conveniently across the street was the Ye Olde Book Shoppe, run by a community club associated with the public library. There was a large population of retirees in Tadfield, and they were mostly big readers. Boxes of donated books arrived at the shop every day, and volunteers sorted through them, shelved, priced, and sold them to the public.

Aziraphale spent most of his days there as a volunteer bookseller, probably more than was strictly necessary for a small bookshop, but he would cut down his hours once rehearsals started up.

Aziraphale was in the midst of organising auditions for the play he was to direct. The board had decided that the winter play would be _A Christmas Carol_ ; it was a classic, and would surely draw in a large audience. Gabriel, executive producer at the playhouse, had made sure to hammer in that point at the board meeting. Aziraphale would rather be directing something a little closer to Shakespeare, but his directing career had to start somewhere and he wasn’t about to be fussy about it. Besides, the story was heart-warming in a way that _Hamlet_ wasn’t quite.

Aziraphale was slightly worried about casting the play. There was a large ensemble cast, and roles for all ages. Tadfield was a cosy, involved town, but he feared that interest in acting was woefully low around these parts. After all, most of the people in town right now would be long gone by the time the seasons changed.

Traffic in the bookshop picked up a bit in the summer months—normally, Aziraphale would spend the day engrossed in a novel, but lately he’d had to actually _make sales_ and _chit chat_ with customers. Tourists had begun to arrive for the holidays—summers in Tadfield were unusually idyllic. It was hot, but a dry heat that didn’t suffocate and oppress the body. Rainstorms were regular, but not excessive in nature—just enough to water the plants. People came to Tadfield from all over, to camp, to fish, to go on long-distance bike rides and walks, and to generally have a good time away from the city.

He looked up from the call for auditions he was writing when the shop door dinged once again. A woman in a dark halter-top dress stepped inside, big sunglasses obscuring her eyes and black hair tied back in an impossibly tight bun. She smiled at Aziraphale.

“Hello, Anathema.” Anathema, like Aziraphale, was a recent newcomer to Tadfield. She’d moved there with her husband, Newt, and taken over the job of director of the local library. She therefore came into the shop often to check how the bookshop was doing—the money it made funded the library, and any worn library books were handed down to the bookshop. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

“Aziraphale, how’s the shop coming along? Are you going to take any time off this summer?”

“Once rehearsals start, I think so. I’ll be busy with the play. Are you very sure you don’t want to audition, dear? I’d love to have you in the cast.” Aziraphale secretly thought that Anathema would make a perfect Young Belle, Scrooge’s ex-fiancée, or maybe even a glowing Ghost of Christmas Past. She had a sort of haunting quality at times.

“Nah, I’m not interested in acting. I think I’ve found your lead, though.” She propped her elbows on the counter, her arms evenly bronzed.

“Oh?” Aziraphale was taken aback by her assertiveness. “I’ll remind you that I’m the appointed director, and so _I_ will be making all casting decisions,” he warned her, half-jokingly.

“You’ll be needing an assistant, though, right? Or a stage manager? I _love_ working behind the scenes.” She lowered her sunglasses and wiggled her eyebrows up and down at him. “But as I was saying, the landscaper Newt and I just hired to finish our yard has the _perfect..._ je-ne-sais-quoi for portraying Ebenezer Scrooge. He’s been living in Tadfield for ages and apparently never thought to try out theatre. I’m trying to get him to audition, but he’s being a twat about it. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Well, if you can convince him to audition, that’d be wonderful. I have this recurring nightmare of not being able to cast Scrooge, so I end up having to play him. And in every dream scenario, I’m on stage in front of a full house, and I can’t remember my lines. I wake up in a cold sweat, writhing about.” Aziraphale shivered at the thought. “It’s terrible.”

Anathema cringed. “Sounds dreadful. When you finish the audition sheet, give me a few copies so I can put them up in the library—speaking of which, some idiot lost our copy of _Far From the Madding Crowd_ , you don’t have a copy lying around here, do you?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Anathema, you know we don’t have a computer system, and this is _not_ my full-time job. Browse the shelves if you’re desperate.”

“You can be so grumpy, you know that? No wonder you hardly get any customers.”

Aziraphale gave her a grimace, but in truth he was fond of their banter. Anyone else calling him names and teasing him would’ve put him out, but somehow when Anathema did it, it seemed intimate in a way he didn’t really feel with anyone else in Tadfield. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the red haired man since that day in Waitrose, but some part of him liked to imagine that a similarly playful relationship could be possible with him, if Aziraphale ever managed to see him again.

\---

“While you’re waiting, please fill out the sheet that our lovely stage manager is passing out—be sure to include any scheduling conflicts that you know of for the next four months all the way up til our performance dates in December. If you know any of your measurements, such as shoe size, that would also be extremely helpful to include, so that our costume designer can start putting aside materials ASAP.”

Aziraphale skimmed his eyes quickly over the group of people assembled in the lobby of the Tadfield Playhouse. It wasn’t a bad crowd, but he didn’t foresee having to turn down many people—his bet was that everyone in the room would get a role, no matter how small. He clutched his clipboard to his chest.

“Alright, auditions will take about 15 minutes each—depending on the role you’re auditioning for, we may take two or three of you at a time. You’re to wait in the lobby until Anathema comes to get you—she’ll also be giving out scenes for you to read from during the audition. Break a leg, everyone!”

Aziraphale nodded at Anathema and made a dramatic exit, walking into the dark and empty theatre. He flicked on the lights (but not the stage lights—he didn’t want the auditioners to get stage fright right away) and took his position in the centre of the house. The seats were comfortable enough, if not a little cramped.

Two hours and four cups of tea later, Aziraphale was just about fed up of hearing the same scenes read over and over. His clipboard was a mess of scribbles on each of the actors, but they’d yet to audition anyone who was age-appropriate to play the lead role.

“How many more people have we got?” he asked Anathema. She was seated next to him, chewing on the cap of a pen as she made very neat notes on her pad of paper. She looked at her list.

“Only a few more on the list, but last time I checked, several people had dodged out early. Anthony Crowley had better not be one of them—he promised me he’d audition.”

“Is he over the age of 40 and capable of remembering lines and moving about stage? I don’t think anyone we’ve seen so far fits the bill, unless you count R. P. Tyler, but I don’t know that he has such a demanding role in him…” Aziraphale tried not to get too worked up, but he had a tendency to get very invested in the things he was involved with.

“I’m telling you, I think he’d be perfect. I’ve seen the way he moves around our garden, it’s sort of like he was meant to be onstage. He moves like he _knows_ someone’s watching. And he definitely looks old enough to play Scrooge, especially with the right make-up and costume.”

“Well, by all means, do go and fetch him then, since you can’t stop gushing about the man. He’d better be good.”

Anathema dashed down the auditorium out to the lobby. Moments later Aziraphale heard the swinging doors open again, and Anathema explaining the audition process to the person she was escorting inside. Aziraphale ran a hand over his face and added a fresh page to his clipboard.

When he looked up, Anathema was ushering a familiar figure onto the stage. He was instantly recognisable as the irritable green-bean purchaser Aziraphale had seen in the shop around a month ago—although he was now dressed in casual, if rather snug, blue jeans and a dark T-shirt. He still wore his sunglasses and clunky work boots, but he appeared to be free of dirt stains and leaves in his hair.

Aziraphale gulped as he watched the man saunter onstage. Rather than take the steps on stage right, he climbed directly onto the proscenium with one swift raise of his leg. He ran a hand through chin-length hair then stuffed both his hands deep into his pockets. Aziraphale sensed the man’s apprehension and hoped that he’d taken the time to at least warm up a bit.

Unsure whether he should comment on the fact that he recognised the man (would it make him more, or less nervous?), Aziraphale decided to carry on like any other audition. “Could you state your name and the role you are auditioning for, please?”

“Anthony Crowley, auditioning for Ebenezer Scrooge.” He said it with a blasé lilt, cocking his hip out casually.

Aziraphale wrote the name in all-capitals at the top of his page. “Lovely. We’d love you to read from scenes between Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Past—Anathema will read the ghost’s lines. Once you’ve read the scenes, I’ll give you a few notes and you’ll be asked to perform it one more time. You may begin when you’re ready.”

Aziraphale sat back in his seat and watched as Crowley cleared his throat and picked up the paper Anathema had provided. He brought the script right to the tip of his nose, then pulled it all the way back again before slipping his sunglasses onto the top of his head. From his seat, Aziraphale couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, and Crowley’s brow covered them in a fine line.

Before he started reading, Crowley shifted uncomfortably, spreading his legs and letting his free arm hang loose before bringing it back to comb through his hair. Aziraphale glanced over at Anathema and raised an eyebrow. She swatted at him silently.

“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold me?” began Crowley.

Anathema read out the following line, “I am.”

“Who and what are you?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Long past?”

“Your past.”

Anthony and Anathema read on. Soon enough, they got to the end of the selected dialogue, with Scrooge’s last line, “Spirit, show me no more! Conduct me home! Spirit, remove me from this place!”

Aziraphale didn’t bother making many notes, mainly because he didn’t know where to begin. Voice projection was a major problem, and the man clearly had no sense of how to hold himself onstage. The line delivery was adequate, but hardly a dazzling performance. Several times Crowley had stumbled over very simple words, and Aziraphale found himself wondering if this man even _read_ on a regular basis.

He tried not to come across as too condescending when he asked Crowley to read it again, but with a little more feeling.

As Aziraphale watched Crowley stumble through the scene a second time, he had to wonder why someone like him, a landscape gardener, would have any interest in theatre anyway. The second reading was only marginally better than the first.

“You were amazing, Anthony. A natural onstage, dare I say.” Anathema floated down to meet Crowley as he hopped down from the stage. Aziraphale rolled his eyes—he and Anathema would be having a serious discussion about the unnecessary flattery of actors later on.

\---

“Hullo?” said a scratchy voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, is this Anthony Crawly?” Aziraphale assumed it must be, but everyone sounded so different on the phone, he could never be sure.

“It’s _Crow_ ley. Speaking…”

“Oh, my apologies. It’s just that your handwriting on our form leaves much to the imagination… I must have mistaken your _o_ for an _a_.”

“What form? Who am I speaking to?”

“Ah, this is Aziraphale Fell, director at the Tadfield Playhouse.” Bugger. Aziraphale was coming off as unprofessional already. “I’m calling to inform you that you have been cast in our upcoming production of _A Christmas Carol,_ as the lead, Ebenezer Scrooge. We were impressed by your audition…”

In reality, Aziraphale had not been all that impressed by the man’s skills, but Anathema had made a strong case for Anthony to lead the cast. First and foremost, the fact that he was closest to the profile of someone who could play such a part. Then there was the practical benefit that the man worked only during daylight hours, and thus would be free in the evenings for rehearsals and performances. Lastly, Anathema had appealed to Aziraphale’s sense of community—the whole point of amateur theatre was to have fun and foster relationships between people, and her landscaper, according to her, would benefit immensely from such an opportunity. He was apparently a bit of a loner, if town gossip was anything to go by.

“Is that so?” There was a hint of a smile in Anthony’s voice.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself—he abhorred actors who got too big for their boots. “Well, that, and the fact that no one else really fit the profile of what we were looking for. So you get it by default.”

As soon as he’d spoken, Aziraphale lifted a hand to his mouth in silent horror at what he’d just said. What was it about this man that always made Aziraphale say the rudest things? He was a decent person, and it wasn’t as if Crowley were provoking him or pushing any of his buttons… something about him just made Aziraphale lose his train of thought, only to find a new train of thought that was decidedly more vicious than customary.

Anthony had remained silent, so Aziraphale attempted to amend his statement. “That is to say, we are thrilled to welcome you to the cast, and I’m sure you will be an excellent lead, if you accept the role.”

“I accept the role of Ebenezer Scrooge with great pleasure, Mr. Fell,” came Crowley’s voice.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale replied, unsure whether to read anything into what sounded like a mocking tone in Crowley’s acceptance of the role. “Our table read is set to take place on Monday at 7 pm, and that’s when we’ll be handing out scripts as well as taking measurements for costumes. Please don’t be late.”

Aziraphale slammed down the receiver before he had the chance to say anything else idiotic. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, attempting to expunge the anxious feeling he’d been suffering throughout the phone conversation with Anthony Crowley. There was still a long list of actors he needed to call about their roles.

* * *

Anathema, Aziraphale was learning, was turning out to be a right pain in the arse. She was the self-appointed assistant director, as well as the official stage manager of the production, which was fine. Aziraphale was the first to admit that no one could put on a play all alone—it was inherently a group effort. And Anathema did her job, and then some, every week: she sent out the rehearsal schedule and contacted people individually when she knew they were running late; she printed out blocking sheets and scene change duties for every single actor to refer to; she was on script duty during rehearsals, quick to catch any line errors; she was the voice of reassurance at the end of rehearsal, when Aziraphale would go through his notes, which he’d been told were rather severe for an amateur theatre group.

Really, Aziraphale couldn’t complain. But he maintained that Anathema had at least a few key faults. Mainly, she got along with all the actors much better than Aziraphale did. She chatted with them before every rehearsal, usually delaying the start of things. Aziraphale didn’t have that talent, nor did he want it. But every so often, he wished he could just casually ask Anthony Crowley how his day at work had been, if the gardens were behaving.

Instead, Aziraphale kept his distance and went about his duties, of which there were many, to be fair. As rehearsals progressed and the actors became more comfortable with their lines and blocking, Aziraphale started introducing more elements. Madame Tracy, an eccentric middle-aged lady who had been sewing costumes for the theatre for years, pulled out all the period clothing they had stored and helped Aziraphale tailor them to the cast. He’d had Beelzebub (that couldn’t possibly be their real name), the technical director, come in to start work on the lighting and sound design for the play. Anathema’s husband Newt and Tracy’s husband Mr. Shadwell were spearheading the construction and painting of the set.

Generally, directing suited Aziraphale. He was comfortable in his role of telling people what to do and how to do it. He simply _adored_ anything and everything Charles Dickens, and had been rereading all his favourites to get into the mood. Aziraphale’s downfall vis-à-vis directing was in dealing with the younger cast members—he’d always been uneasy around children, finding them unruly and difficult to contain.

One day towards the end of October, Anathema proposed that she and Aziraphale meet before rehearsal to go over scheduling. It was almost time to have a full-cast run-thru—up until then, they had been calling actors only in their ensemble groups to rehearse individual scenes.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that _Anthony Crowley_ is still not off book,” Aziraphale said pointedly over his takeaway curry. “Perhaps we should’ve gone with R.P. Tyler after all.” The older man had been cast instead as Jacob Marley, and seemed to have a never-ending list of ideas for how Jacob Marley would react in each situation, even though the man was a ghost who appeared in one scene, for Heaven’s sake.

“As your assistant director, I assure you that R.P. Tyler is far more suited to the role we gave him,” Anathema replied. “Crowley is doing fine, and besides, he still has over a month to get comfortable on stage.”

“You’re not the assistant director,” Aziraphale protested, “you’re assistant _to_ the director, which is me. You answer to _me_.”

“Don’t you pull that shit from _The Office_ on me!” Anathema shot back. “I’m assistant director.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said with an eyebrow raised.

“Please, Aziraphale, I know you watch an unholy amount of television.”

Aziraphale simply pursed his lips in response. He did watch a bit too much television. “But really though, why is a person like Crowley pursuing acting? You must see by now that he’s a far cry from the level of expertise demanded by this role—I can’t even tell if he’s enjoying himself onstage! Maybe he’d be better off joining the run crew.”

He asked because he wanted to rub in the fact that his gut reaction to Crowley’s audition had been correct, but Aziraphale was also secretly curious about the man’s life. Did he have no family? At this point he was spending almost every evening at the theatre, sometimes not leaving until after 11 pm.

For Aziraphale that was fine—if he weren’t at rehearsal he would be at home, alone, reading a book (or, more likely, bingeing some series, as much as it pained him to admit it). No one was missing him at home. He didn’t even have a cat. Did that mean Crowley was most likely single and pet-less as well? What would he be doing if he didn’t have rehearsal every night? Aziraphale just wanted to know, and he wasn’t exactly sure why.

Thankfully, Anathema was his in on all things related to Crowley. Aziraphale tried to stay away from town gossip, as a general rule. But Anathema had first-hand information about her landscaper—he regularly did work at her house, and she was very chatty. Aziraphale assumed that Anathema could be trusted to deliver factual information about Crowley.

Anathema sighed. “I think it’s great he’s pushing himself outside of his comfort zone. And to be honest, from what he tells me, I think he really likes being part of a large cast. He seems really lonely. His daughter recently left for school, and Agnes at the tourist office told me that it’s just been the two of them since his wife passed away ten years ago.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale felt sort of bad for being so nosy about this near-stranger’s personal life. Especially when it was so sad—Crowley didn’t strike him as a tragic figure, but maybe he was putting on a front. Maybe he really was always acting—it was entirely possible.

He also felt a little part of him wilt in disappointment with the knowledge that Crowley was a widower. Aziraphale was, as far as he could tell, the only gay person within a 100km radius. It had been a bit of a let-down when he’d first moved to Tadfield, but honestly Aziraphale had resigned himself to being gay and single long ago. The decision to move out of London was in a way his final acceptance of that fact. None of the men he’d been with over the years was the kind of person Aziraphale could imagine growing old with and loving til the end, so he’d come to enjoy being on his own. Taking care of himself.

However, some feral part of his mind had thought, for a moment, that Crowley was maybe in the same boat as he was. Or at least on the same body of water—mainly, the gay-and-single body of water. He tried to hide his disappointment and project instead the proper response to hearing about the death of a spouse.

“But if you really think he’s tanking the production, maybe ask him to come early and rehearse his scenes one-on-one with you…” Anathema suggested. Aziraphale rolled his eyes in response.

\---

“I envy you, being able to work outdoors all day. Being cooped up in this dark theatre all the time, it can get rather…” Aziraphale searched for the right word, “...gloomy.”

He had requested that Crowley arrive a little earlier on most rehearsal days, so that Aziraphale could give him extra notes and try to coach him in his line delivery. So far, the only line he said with proper Scrooge-ness was “Bah humbug,” but to be fair, it was a phrase Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised to hear come out of Crowley’s mouth on a regular day.

Crowley grunted in response. “It’s my job, so... hard to feel that special about it.”

“No, of course. I didn’t mean to come off as…. no matter.”

“‘S OK. I do like being in the sun. That’s partly why I chose the career.”

Aziraphale could tell that the sun liked Crowley in return. Every time he came into rehearsal, usually still in his work boots and dirty jeans, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the sun-kissed skin of his arms. Years of exposure had made it almost leathery in appearance, and there were some darker spots on his hands. It concerned Aziraphale slightly, but Crowley at least seemed to protect his face from the rays—sometimes he forgot to take off his hat and sunglasses before coming into the theatre, and looked somewhat ridiculous until one of the other cast members teased him about it.

Aziraphale had to remind himself not to stare at any part of his body, regardless of how tan it was, while Crowley set down his jacket and stretched his arms far above his head.

“Er, once we run through some of these scenes, Madame Tracy has some costumes, we just want to make sure they fit and look appropriate for the play.”

Aziraphale also had to remind himself not to fantasise about how Crowley would look in his dressing room, tying a cravat around his neck. Aziraphale _adored_ 19th-century fashion, and was particularly looking forward to dress rehearsals for that very reason.

“Sounds great,” Crowley said. After a pause, he continued. “And sorry for taking so long to learn my lines. This is kind of my first role...ever. I have been practising, I swear.”

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to tell Crowley that he’d better practise a little harder; there were only a few more weeks of rehearsal and the public of Tadfield would be unforgiving. But he softened at the thought of Crowley pruning some shrub and reciting his lines under his breath. He seemed so eager to please, and was so evidently working hard, that Aziraphale was tempted to praise his efforts.

“Well, it shows that you’ve been practising. And the lead role is a lot to take on, for anyone, no matter their experience.”

By way of response, Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze with a hint of a smirk in his eyes (thankfully not covered by glasses). The apples of his cheeks quirked to life, and a dimple appeared on one side. Aziraphale had to turn around quickly just to stop himself from doling out any other unwarranted compliments—now that he’d seen how they affected Crowley, it might be more tempting than he could afford.

\---

“Anthony, when you’re watching Adam’s scenes in the flashbacks, remember that you’re revisiting the memory of what a horrible person you once were, and that’s supposed to make you very sad, not bitter and angry. Although I understand where you’re coming from, I just don’t think it’s the best choice for your emotional journey in the story. As is, you’re staring daggers at Adam the whole time, and it’s just not reading right from the audience’s point of view.”

Aziraphale was trying not to stop for notes in the middle of a run-thru, but he was starting to suspect that perhaps something was going on between Anthony and Adam that he didn’t know about, particularly due to the fact that Crowley’s acting was coming along very well in other scenes.

Adam Young, who’d been cast to play the young version of Ebeneezer Scrooge, was what some would call the village delinquent. He was nearly 16, and was very much not serious about his academics. Adam worked at the town shops and spent his free time doing whatever it was that delinquents did. Aziraphale had heard from someone that Adam was responsible for the toilet-paper incident a couple years back (R.P. Tyler’s house had been enrobed in toilet paper the morning of a local election). Once again, Aziraphale hated to pay heed to the rumour mill, and he gave Adam the benefit of the doubt. So far, he’d been impressed. The young man seemed to come alive onstage, and he had no problem learning lines and acting out the scenes he was in.

Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to be severely bothered by the boy’s presence, onstage and off. Adam was largely unaffected—whenever Crowley fixed him with a cutting stare, he simply shrugged and carried on joking around with the rest of the younger cast members.

After Aziraphale gave him the note, Crowley took a deep breath as if to compose himself. “Right, yeah, sorry. I wasn’t fully in character.”

There was something going on, and Aziraphale had a hunch that he probably shouldn’t interfere, but that didn’t stop him from getting the scoop from an outside source (i.e. Anathema, who Aziraphale got all his town gossip from now—she was very up to date).

On the ride home (Anathema always offered, and Aziraphale always accepted), he threw the topic into the conversation as subtly as he could. Casual as a cucumber.

“Ah, yes, the Adam vs. Anthony situation. I have a few different sources on that one—Anthony has something against Adam, but he’s never told me why exactly. I assumed it was something petty, like he ruined one of his plants or something. Anthony is like, _super_ protective of his plants, by the way! It’s kind of weird. He castigates me if he comes by and I’ve forgotten to prune the rosemary.”

They were nearing Aziraphale’s street. “That’s odd, but back on topic, Anathema. Do you have any more clues as to what their problem really is?”

“Oh, yeah. Madame Tracy told me that a few years ago, Adam used to be in a really close friend group with Anthony’s daughter, Pepper. She didn’t know details, but my best guess is that something went down between Adam and Pepper, and Anthony still hasn’t forgiven him for it.” The car pulled up in front of Aziraphale’s place. “Maybe you should ask him, though.”

“I’ve seen how he looks at Adam, I think I’ll keep my distance, thank you very much.”

“Suit yourself. Crowley doesn’t bite, you know. I know he seems prickly and closed-off, but he’s actually really sweet. You should make more of an effort to be friends with him.”

Aziraphale unlatched the passenger door and made to get out of the car. “Alright, thanks for the lift, Anathema,” he said in a rushed tone. “Mind how you go.” He smiled and shut the door behind him. Anathema could learn a few things about minding her own business.

\---

The opportunity to “make an effort to be friends” with Crowley presented itself on more occasions than Aziraphale could count. Crowley was unfailingly on time to every rehearsal, often rolling in before any other cast members arrived.

It was starting to drive Aziraphale mad. As rehearsals went on, he spent less time feverishly scribbling down ways to make it better, and more time simply observing the way it was all coming together. That meant watching Crowley dominate the stage in the expressive way that he did. Crowley was not a bad actor at all, as it turned out. It seemed he had only needed to memorise his lines, then he opened up a floodgate of expression that infused his portrayal wonderfully. There was not an emotion he couldn’t convey, usually through his body language alone. His intonation of the lines was also expert, and sometimes Aziraphale found himself muttering the most memorable lines to himself when he was alone, mimicking the way Crowley said them.

He was still debating whether to ask Crowley to do something about his hair—Aziraphale was pretty sure that next to no one was imagining Ebenezer Scrooge as a spindly man with shockingly red hair. That was more of a Uriah Heep vibe—Scrooge was generally a hunched over, absolutely-over-it, greying man with a permanent scowl.

There was also the question of period-typical hairstyle. Scrooge should have sideburns, but Crowley would look _terrible_ with sideburns, Aziraphale had decided (he thought about Crowley’s look a lot—because he was the lead in the play he was directing, no other reason). After many lengthy considerations on the matter, Aziraphale had concluded that the extent to which he’d ask Crowley to change his physical appearance was to apply white powder to his hair to mask its vibrant colour during performances.

Besides the blip between Adam and Anthony, the cast of _A Christmas Carol_ was starting to feel like one big family. As they got into more rigorous rehearsals, with props, costumes, and lights, the sheer amount of time spent together had brought everyone much closer. Even Bee, the grumpy light technician, had enough of a collaborative spirit to share a few laughs with the actors from time to time.

Aziraphale had gotten to know most of the actors and crew members very well, and ran into them outside of rehearsal. The only person he never encountered outside of the theatre was Crowley. He saw him waltz into the theatre and waltz back out, but he hadn’t seen him in Waitrose, or at the market, or in the bookshop, or anywhere else.

Carols had been added to the ensemble scenes to enhance the holiday feeling of the production, and Aziraphale had spent a considerable amount of time curating a tip-top soundtrack of the best Christmas tunes he knew. As opening night approached, the weather in Tadfield got steadily colder, with snow promised for the first few weeks of December.

Gabriel, the producer, stopped by one evening to see how things were going. He was mostly a hands-off producer, mainly functioning as an overseer to make sure no one went over budget. Gabriel always came in overdressed, in a crisp, light-grey suit with his dark hair perfectly combed back. He drove in from out of town, and always ambled in with some fancy juice that you couldn’t get anywhere near Tadfield to rub in the fact that he didn’t live here.

“We’re going to make so much money with this production, Aziraphale,” he asserted, towering over Aziraphale. Gabriel looked approvingly at the set pieces, now completed with marvelously detailed paintwork. “I just wanted to let you know—the bar needs to be set up in the lobby before you start the final week of rehearsals. Tables, chairs from the barn all need to be moved in. Usually we try to do it ourselves so we don’t have to pay outside help to do it. Be great if we could get that done, _tout de suite_.”

And Gabriel was gone in a flash of white teeth, as quickly as he had appeared.

Aziraphale sighed. Of course Gabriel had to tell him this vital piece of information mere days before the start of hell week. No one would want to spend any more time at the theatre than they already were; Aziraphale would end up staying late and moving the tables himself.

Anathema rolled her eyes when Aziraphale told her about the task Gabriel had set. They were both new to the theatre, and dealing with Gabriel was a struggle if they ever knew one. “I would stay and help tonight, but Newt and I haven’t had dinner together for _weeks_ , and I promised him I’d make _pastel de choclo._ And it’ll take me ages, because I’ve never made it before.” She gave him a regretful smile.

It was a Saturday, so rehearsal started and ended earlier than usual, but it was still lengthy and grueling. The light cues were proving difficult to line up, and they had to take pauses to adjust with every new scene. Once they’d finally worked out the blocking for curtain call, given out notes, and made announcements for the upcoming final week of rehearsal, just about everybody involved looked dead on their feet.

Anathema held up her hand to get everyone’s attention. “Before we all go home and get ready to enjoy our one day off before the final stretch, our producer Gabriel has asked that we move tables and chairs from the barn into the lobby for the opening gala. It’d be best to just get this over with now so we don’t have to worry about it during the rush next week—if anyone is free to stay after and help Aziraphale get that done, it’d be greatly appreciated.”

From across the stage, Crowley’s gaze met Aziraphale’s and for a second, if he hadn’t known better, Aziraphale might almost have thought he caught a glimpse of pure excitement in his eyes.

\---

Aziraphale was still not entirely convinced, but halfway through moving the tables into the lobby, he was fairly certain that Crowley was flirting with him. Out of the entire cast and crew, Crowley was the only one who had volunteered to help move tables. There had been some children who wanted to stay, but their mothers had been waiting in the car park for ages, and besides, they wouldn’t have been much help with the lifting anyway.

The tables were heavy, and they had to lug them clumsily through the cold. The barn, which was used as storage for everything from costume inventory to set pieces, was several metres behind the theatre, and no one had thought to install a motion-sensor light out back. The sun had already gone down, and the only light they had to guide them was the sliver of crescent moon peeking out from behind the trees that lined the road.

“You really don’t have to help with this,” Aziraphale panted as they set down another table in the lobby. “I could’ve forced Anathema and Newt to come and help me do this tomorrow, in the daylight and when it’s not so cold.”

Crowley brushed a stray strand of hair from his eye. “But tomorrow’s the rest day. Even you need to rest.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “but I’d also like to not freeze to death.” He shivered and rubbed his hands together, preparing to step back out into the cold.

“Well, I could warm you up,” said Crowley with a smirk. He looked at Aziraphale, then winced. “I mean, I have an extra pair of gloves you could borrow.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, startled, “oh, _thank you_.” He shook off his immediate response to Crowley’s first remark, which was most likely a simple awkwardly-worded phrase. “I should really get my own pair, the way the weather’s been. I had no idea Tadfield would get so cold so fast.”

“Yeah, we get strange weather around here. Or, you could argue that the rest of the world gets strange weather, and we get the appropriate weather for the season. Either way, this cold bodes terribly for all my plants…”

“Oh right, because you’re a landscape gardener,” Aziraphale said, cooly implying that he didn’t discuss Crowley with Anathema on a near-daily basis.

“That’s right…been doing it for _years._ Which means, I’m really good,” Crowley said with a raise of his eyebrow.

They walked outside again, going around the side to where the cars were parked. The only car there was Crowley’s old-fashioned black vehicle—if Aziraphale knew cars, perhaps he’d be able to identify the mark—which he swaggered towards as if he owned it (which he did, to be fair. But most people didn’t act like that around their cars, was the point).

“Where’s your car?” Crowley asked.

“Well, I walk, usually, and Anathema gives me a lift home.”

Crowley looked at him as if he’d just admitted to brushing his teeth with marmite, and his breath escaped his mouth in a foggy wisp of condensation. “Walk?” he said incredulously. “There’s not even a pavement!”

“Yes, but it’s hardly a great distance. Totally doable.” It _was_ doable, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale had actually done it in recent months.

“Well, I’m giving you a lift after we’re done, no question about it.”

Crowley unlocked his car, then opened the back door and climbed in on his knees to scrounge around for the extra gloves. They evidently weren’t in easy reach, because he had to stretch in the most indecent way, arse in the air, back sloped and arm extended into the depths of the back seat. Finally, Crowley emerged victorious, only to bump the back of his head on the door frame in what looked to be rather painful fashion.

The gloves helped Aziraphale immensely, and he told Crowley so a minimum of three times. His hands were no longer numb from the cold, and the edges of the tables didn’t dig into his palms as much.

As they finished up, Aziraphale was grilled on a variety of subjects, accompanied by gentle ribbing. Once again, he suspected that Crowley was flirting, but he couldn’t be too sure. That look in his eye could just be the effect of the stinging night air, or the reflection of the moon. Crowley was grinning a lot more than usual though, and that was enough to set Aziraphale on edge.

“So how long have you been directing plays?”

“Oh, me?” Aziraphale hummed, realising instantly how stupid that sounded when they were most definitely the only ones there. “This is my first time really directing. I stage managed a few student productions back in my university days…”

“Oh, so you don’t do this for a living? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ah, that’s very kind of you. But no, I used to work as an editor, mainly for a publishing house focusing on nonfiction. I moved here just a few months ago and wanted to get involved with theatre and the arts again.”

“Well, I can tell you you’re an asset to Tadfield. I’ve lived here ages, and I’ve been to exactly _one_ theatre production at the playhouse, and it was utter _shit_ , it was. That’s why I was so hesitant to audition for this one—it was bloody painful to watch, didn’t want to humiliate myself like that. But I can tell you’ve brought something fresh and new…” This was the longest Aziraphale had ever heard Crowley speak at once. “I’ve even told my family to come see me!”

Aziraphale felt a blush creep into his cheeks. “Yes, but it’ll also be thanks to all of the cast and crew for making that possible.” He bit back a compliment on Crowley’s steadily improving acting abilities—he didn’t want to come off as too smitten, too fast. “Is this really your first time on stage?”

“Unless you count being in a school play that I have no memory of… yes, I’ve never done it before. But I’m a natural, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale scoffed as he set down the chair he’d been carrying. “I would hardly go that far. You may have a flair for the dramatic, but that hardly makes you a natural.” Moving into ranting territory, he continued. “Good acting is a mixture of practised technical knowledge and an emotional understanding of a character—being able to bring that through in a performance flawlessly, and repeatedly, takes a great deal of—” he was cut off.

“But you love it, don’t you? Watching me prance dramatically onstage.” Crowley let his chair down with a thud.

“I wouldn’t call what Scrooge does _prancing,_ exactly, Anthony. It’s more of a disgruntled shuffle, which, I must admit, you have mastered...”

Crowley, who had been moving closer throughout Aziraphale’s babbling, was now close enough for Aziraphale to make out the precise colour of his eyes. “Perhaps I need a few more private lessons though, before the opening performance…” He was glancing down at Aziraphale’s lips, and Aziraphale knew that if something didn’t stop them soon, he’d be pushing Crowley up against whatever surface he could find and stealing kisses until both their mouths were sore.

“Aren’t—didn’t you have a wife?” Aziraphale panicked as Crowley’s eyes lazily travelled between his eyes and lips. That seemed enough to startle Crowley enough that he pulled away slightly, but he was still dangerously close.

“I _had_ a wife…” He screwed up his eyes, and Aziraphale looked up at him with pity. “Why, are you worried that I’m about to cheat on her with you? Just because I married a woman doesn’t mean I don’t like men as well, you know,” Crowley said with a twinkle in his eye.

“So… so you do have a wife, she didn’t pass away?” Aziraphale glanced at the lobby door over Crowley’s shoulder, wondering how plausible it was to make a run for it at this stage in his derailment of the conversation.

“She didn’t pass away, she divorced me! I have an ex-wife. Where have you been hearing all this nonsense, you haven’t been talking to Agnes from the tourist office, have you? I suppose she also told you that it was a green card marriage situation, didn’t she?”

“Actually, I did hear that one as well, but it was Anathema who told me,” Aziraphale confided. He sorely needed to make a friend besides Anathema.

Crowley shook his head, slightly amused rather than angry. “All rumours. That Anathema likes her small-town gossip too much. I’ll be having a word with her at rehearsal this week…”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “So, to get this straight… you _were_ married, but now you’re divorced, and you also like men.”

“That’s correct,” Crowley nodded, hovering still a few feet from Aziraphale. His eyes were a bright amber colour, expressive and lovely. For a fraction of a second, Aziraphale was sure that Crowley was about to close the distance between them, back Aziraphale up against the sturdy bar of the lobby and put his hands to better use than moving tables.

After a moment of carefully-maintained eye contact, Crowley broke his gaze away and Aziraphale felt himself come back to his senses. Of _course_ Crowley hadn’t been about to kiss him. Aziraphale had just asked him an incredibly personal, invasive question, and Crowley clearly had been momentarily frozen by it. Aziraphale took a careful step backwards.

“Shall we get the last few chairs, then?” Crowley said, backing up towards the door as one hand gestured. The expression on his face was no longer playful or teasing; there was now more of an anxious half-frown replacing it.

Aziraphale shivered off the unsavoury feeling that had just come over him and led the way back out to the barn. They managed to grab the remaining chairs in only one trip, pausing for Aziraphale to take off Crowley’s gloves so he could lock up the theatre.

“Lift home?” offered Crowley, breaking the silence they had been in throughout the last several minutes. Crowley plucked the car keys out of his trouser pocket, not waiting for a response as he strode over to the black car.

Aziraphale sighed and followed him, pausing when he reached the passenger side. Crowley glanced at him over the top of the car as he opened his door. “Hop in,” he said, “may have to move a few things to the back to make room.”

The inside of the car was messy, messy in the way that clearly indicated Crowley hadn’t offered a ride to anyone in quite some time. Aziraphale opened the door to find the passenger seat covered with various tools, amongst them an ice scraper and a pair of secateurs. Crowley gathered the lot of them in his hands and shoved them roughly to the floor of the back seat.

Aziraphale picked up the hefty binder that remained on the seat and climbed gingerly into the car. Crowley reached out his hand for the binder, adding it to the rubble in the back.

“Sorry about the mess, it’s been a bit hectic.” Crowley put the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. Aziraphale still had no clue what type of car it was, but it seemed well-loved. The car radio spluttered to life on a pop-y station, Crowley immediately fumbling with the dial to turn the volume down.

Aziraphale had been too occupied looking at Crowley’s hands to fasten his seatbelt right away, and was delayed even longer when Crowley stretched an arm behind Aziraphale’s seat to reverse. “Buckle up, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, changing gears. “Where to?”

Aziraphale scrabbled for the belt while Crowley looked at him expectantly. “Er, just at the end of Saint-James Street. The house with the bush of winterberries out front.”

“Oh, is that the one with the abysmal garden out back? I heard the last owner kept it in terrible disarray.” Crowley was pulling out of the rocky pathway at an alarming speed, with one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the heat controls. Aziraphale braced himself against his seat.

“Well, some might call it abysmal, but I find it quite charming.”

Crowley gave an understanding nod as he turned the car onto the main road. “Still, if you ever want it _styled._ I’m the best man for the job ‘round here.”

“I’ll–I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale said, knuckles turning white as he gripped his seat.

It wasn’t a very long drive to Aziraphale’s house, and it was curtailed significantly by Crowley’s breakneck speed. They said nothing else throughout the drive, the only sound the faint crooning of the radio. By the time they pulled up by his front door, Aziraphale had vowed not to accept a ride from Crowley again, if he could help it.

“Very generous of you, thank you for the ride,” he said, unbuckling his belt and hurriedly reaching for the handle of the door.

“Don’t mention it, anytime.” Crowley watched him as he clambered out and grabbed his satchel from the floor of the car.

“Drive carefully, and rest up for this week.” Aziraphale nodded at Crowley and closed the door. The car idled until Aziraphale had successfully opened his front door, at which point it revved up and drove off down the street.

Once inside, Aziraphale lit a fire, and, even though it was late, warmed up some leftover shepherd’s pie. The last hour had been just as exhausting as the several hours of rehearsal preceding it. Aziraphale could feel the stressful tension in his shoulders, from the apprehension that Crowley might actually be flirting with him, to the disappointment that he was not.

Was Aziraphale disappointed? He licked his spoon and put away the pie, taking the kettle off the burner for a cup of tea. After turning it over in his head, Aziraphale accepted the fact that he was disappointed that Crowley didn’t seem interested in him. _Particularly_ after the revelation that he was not straight, not mourning the loss of a partner, and most probably single, given the state of his car. Although that could hardly be an indication of his relationship status…

Aziraphale carried on with these thoughts throughout his nighttime routine, and had considerable trouble getting to sleep because of them.

* * *

The opening night of a play is a simultaneously thrilling and harrowing experience for everyone involved. The week leading up to it, on the other hand, is an endless and necessary nightmare that will beat all the energy out of even the liveliest people, make you question your sanity, and generally fuck with your sense of time and purpose.

Aziraphale was expecting it to be bad, but he had no way of preparing for exactly _how_ bad hell week for _A Christmas Carol_ would be.

Before he arrived at the theatre, Aziraphale had been looking forward to rehearsal. He’d spent the day off dreadfully distracted by the memory of very nearly kissing Crowley—he’d only needed to lean in just a little bit and he would have felt what it was like to kiss those chapped lips, touch his weathered skin. Aziraphale hoped that seeing Crowley on stage would snap him out of it, help him focus on the far more important matter of making sure the play was ready for opening night.

Aziraphale met Anathema at the theatre to go over things before the cast was called. Anathema would be calling the show from the booth from now on, which meant that she and Aziraphale would no longer be in communication throughout the duration of the play.

Anathema had also talked Aziraphale into providing snacks backstage, as long as they were nowhere near the dressing rooms and costumes. Throughout the rehearsal period, eating schedules were completely off-kilter—sandwiches for dinner, snack food at midnight after rehearsal, an egregious amount of energy drinks. The sacrifices one makes for their art...

The pizzas were delivered from the only pizza joint in town, the Four Horsemen of the Pizzacalypse (a terrible name for a restaurant, everyone could agree). Anathema set them up on the tables in the lobby that Aziraphale and Crowley had brought in after the last rehearsal. There was veggie, gluten-free, dairy-free, and meat-lovers—Anathema made sure that everyone would have something to eat in between their scenes.

Actors slowly started arriving, gravitating to the lobby once they smelled the pizza. Aziraphale looked at the time, knowing that the first run thru would probably be bumpy and take close to four hours. “Help yourselves to the pizza so graciously provided by our stage manager, but please be mindful of the time. We start the first act in precisely 40 minutes, and you’re not to go anywhere _near_ the food while you’re in your costumes. Leave enough time to be in full costume by the time we call places, thank you! Warm-ups onstage in 30.”

There was chaos as everyone prepared for the top of the show. Actors who needed significant work in the hair and makeup department were meant to arrive an hour before places, and they frantically scurried around the one mirror backstage, applying absurd amounts of rouge and lipstick for a play that took place in the 1800s.

Ten minutes before the cast was set to start their group warm-up, Anathema stopped Aziraphale on her way up to the sound booth. “Have you heard from Anthony? I didn’t see him in the green room, and he should be here by now since we’re doing a full dress rehearsal.”

Aziraphale had a moment of Crowley-related panic, replacing the putting-on-a-play panic that had taken over since he’d arrived at the theatre. “Did you already check the lobby? Maybe he’s just getting some pizza?” he said, even though he knew the tremble of his voice betrayed him.

“Don’t think he’s the kind of person to eat pizza right before going onstage, but I can check again. We’ll have to call him if he’s not here in another ten minutes.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, “thank you, Anathema.” He sat down in the house while his brain went haywire. It flashed back and forth between every interaction he could remember having with Crowley (and there weren’t that many, so he was pretty sure he remembered all of them very clearly). For a long time, he hadn’t even been sure that Crowley liked or gave a hoot about him at all. He’d been strangely standoffish, not the welcoming stereotype of a villager. Aziraphale realised he didn’t even know Crowley that well—he’d barely talked to him one-on-one at all, and some of Anathema’s intel on him had already proven to be incorrect.

The other night in the lobby of the theatre, Aziraphale had _thought_ Crowley seemed genuinely interested in him. Aziraphale’s intrusive thoughts had manifested themselves only after Crowley had backed away from him, and Aziraphale began extrapolating wildly as he was prone to doing in potentially romantic situations. Now, his memory of the conversation was so foggy, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t let something slip that made Crowley lose all respect for him whatsoever.

Anathema came back from the lobby shaking her head. Aziraphale groaned inwardly and willed himself not to start biting his nails. “I’ll call him,” Anathema reassured. “Maybe he just got caught up in an altercation with a rose bush or something,” she said with a wink.

Aziraphale stared up at Anathema while she held her phone to her ear. When moments went by and she still wasn’t in a conversation with Crowley, Aziraphale started imagining worst-case scenarios: Crowley was dead; Crowley was lying incapacitated in someone’s garden, unable to move; Aziraphale had made such a tit of himself, Crowley was boycotting _A Christmas Carol_ and moving to the coast, thus forcing Aziraphale to take on the role of Scrooge and make and even further fool of himself.

Anathema tapped her finger against her lips as she waited out the phone call. When she got Crowley’s answer phone, she left a brief message, with considerable style.

“How was moving tables with just you and Crowley the other night, by the way?” Anathema asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“Why— it was nothing— nothing out of the ordinary! We were just having a chinwag, he didn’t say anything about rehearsal, that I can recall.” Aziraphale willed his voice to return to its usual pitch, but it had grown considerably higher.

Anathema narrowed her eyes but didn’t pry any further. “Well, I guess this is where we get screwed over for not having understudies. Think you’re up to the task?”

A wave of panic flooded Aziraphale—he was already having preemptive stage fright, forgetting what Scrooge’s first lines were, thinking about how silly he would look in the dressing gown.

Anathema sensed his unease and soothed him. “Relax, I’m kidding. He’ll turn up, I’m sure there’s a perfectly normal explanation. He wouldn’t do this to the cast, flake out at the last minute like this.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands nervously and tried to tell himself that Anathema was correct.

\---

“Sorry! I’m _so_ sorry, completely lost track of time.” A dishevelled Crowley skid into the theatre, ten minutes into the opening sequence. Behind him entered a teenage girl with a book under her arm, and a very skeptical look on her face.

Aziraphale was on stage, as he was the only one most likely to remember Crowley’s blocking and lines for the run-thru. Relief hit him immediately, and he couldn’t even find it in him to castigate Crowley for being unforgivably late; he was glad he had turned up at all.

Crowley was ushering the girl into one of the audience seats as Aziraphale hastily stepped down from the stage. “This is my daughter, Pepper,” Crowley said. “She’s paying me a surprise visit, in time to see my big stage début,” he beamed. “You don’t mind if she sits in for the rehearsal, do you?”

Aziraphale looked at Pepper with a warm smile. “I suppose not,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, Pepper, you will be our first audience-member and critic.”

“I’ve seen a lot of plays,” Pepper sniffed, crossing her legs. “I can take notes, if you like.”

Crowley shot Aziraphale a look that said ‘yikes-she’s-a-bit-intense-but-we-all-have-to-deal-with-it’ and ran off to the dressing room to get into costume.

“Stand by while we wait for our actual Scrooge to take his place,” Aziraphale announced. He took his place in the centre of the house, pausing to shoot a look of relief in Anathema’s direction in the booth.

The run-thru was brutal, but not any worse than could be expected. People botched the scene changes, forgot their lines, missed a cue due to a costume malfunction, and generally stumbled through both acts. At one point, a bench was brought onstage when it was not meant to be on for another ten lines of dialogue, and Crowley tripped over it, falling spectacularly. He managed to catch himself, avoiding any literal manifestations of the phrase “break a leg.” Pepper succeeded in holding back most of her laughter, saving her notes for the end.

The next day, the dress rehearsal was marginally less of a train wreck, although Mrs. Fezziwig did have a mishap with her bodice, and Mr. Fezziwig forgot that he had to do the do-si-do, and so Mrs. Fezziwig was partnerless during the dance sequence. But, conversely, Jacob Marley remembered all nine of his lines without asking for a prompt from anyone.

And so on it went, throughout hell week.

Aziraphale was feeling immensely better about the preparedness of the cast and crew for the show on Friday. What he was not feeling much better about was his relationship with Crowley. He feared that this was something they were going to handle by never mentioning it again. Even though Crowley hadn’t been scared off of acting in the play, Aziraphale was fairly certain the whole misunderstanding about his ex-wife was probably enough to kill his chances with the handsome gardener.

The more he thought about how he’d blown it, the more Aziraphale found himself craving more time with Crowley. Not just watching him perform onstage, but talking to him, getting to know him, asking him about the quirks and peculiarities of Tadfield. Also admiring his eyes, seeing his sheepish smile when Aziraphale complimented him, running his fingers through his hair. When the play was over, would Aziraphale ever see him again? Perhaps he could ask Crowley to redesign his garden, although it would be a very obvious excuse just to see him because Aziraphale’s garden was fine, and he was not interested in doing any upkeep for it.

When opening night arrived, the theatre was abuzz with patrons. Ticket sales had done very well, as Gabriel had predicted, and it was nearly a full house for the first performance. Aziraphale went backstage as the guests filtered into their seats—a mix of elderly ladies who would be unwrapping lozenges at the most inopportune times, and disgruntled family members of the cast who would be suppressing giggles when their relative was onstage.

Aziraphale didn’t really feel nervous. His work was done. He would go onstage briefly before the play began, to thank everyone for coming but, more importantly, to ask them to _please_ turn off their mobile phones. If they could get through a single performance without a distracting interruption from the audience, it would be a miracle.

Since it was December and a Christmassy play, Aziraphale had selected to wear a green blazer, embroidered with holly leaves and berries. He was only a little jealous of everyone else’s period costumes, and found that this made up for it.

In the green room, the nerves were palpable. Children were unable to keep still, fidgeting in their frocks and trying to escape to peek between the curtains at the audience.

The green room was a small place for 40+ people to convene, many of them sporting massive crinolines and teetering headpieces. Aziraphale tried to get the attention of all the actors to say a few words of final encouragement. “We’ve got a great show to put on, get out there and have fun! Break a leg,” he said, looking around at everyone and feeling genuinely proud of all the work they’d put into it. It felt truly like a joint effort, a play that would not be possible without the participation of each and every one of the people in the room.

As Aziraphale was looking around at the cast, he noticed one face was missing. Crowley, with his poorly disguised red hair sticking out of his top hat, was nowhere to be seen. Places were in 15, and at this point, if he disappeared, they would be forced to cancel the show. Aziraphale swallowed down the ripple of panic and went into the wings to look for Crowley before he went to Anathema for moral support.

The sound of boots hitting the concrete gave Aziraphale hope that the show would indeed go on.

The only light backstage was a small blue lightbulb, used mainly for actors to pour over their cheat-sheets of the scene changes. The blue light tinted Crowley’s hair and cast his face in a strange sickly pallor. When Aziraphale let out a breath of relief at seeing him, in full costume, Crowley turned to look at him, startled.

“Think you could go onstage for me instead?” he huffed.

Aziraphale stepped closer. “You’re not nervous, are you? I didn’t want to feed your ego, but you really are a natural performer.”

“I know I am,” Crowley hissed. “I just realised that there’s an entire audience of people out there, some of whom I know personally. And it’s making me question my decision to give this ridiculous hobby a whirl. People might think I’m shit! And talk about it behind my back!”

“Who cares!” Aziraphale said, although that was exactly the reason you’d never catch _him_ portraying any characters on a stage. “I think we’ve established that this town is woefully littered with rumours, many of which have no bearing on reality.”

Crowley cracked a grin, as if he was remembering something fondly. “That’s true, this town is a menace.” He paused. “The other night, last week… well, I thought–” Aziraphale held his breath as Crowley faltered. He had no idea what Crowley was going to say, but knew exactly what he wanted him to say. Eventually, Crowley’s eyes met his again. “Good luck kiss from the esteemed director?”

“Anthony!” Aziraphale gasped, even as he rejoiced inwardly at Crowley’s request. “We do not speak of luck inside a theatre, it’s terribly bad luck!”

“What, have I just cursed the entire production?” Crowley snickered. “Are we all going to turn into frogs or something?” He inched closer to Aziraphale.

“It’s alright, I suppose, since I haven’t given you a kiss yet. The damage is not yet done.”

“So, how about a superstitious, I-hope-you-break-your-leg kiss, then?” His tone was joking, but Crowley’s face was a very sincere picture of nerves mixed with hopefulness.

Aziraphale sighed. It wasn’t exactly how he’d been picturing his first kiss with Crowley to play out (and he had been picturing it lately), but he supposed that if it helped ensure a good performance, it couldn’t hurt. He gently placed his hands on Crowley’s arms and leaned up to give him a chaste brush on the lips, careful not to mess up the stage makeup.

He broke away before he let himself become too intoxicated by the way Crowley had leaned into the kiss. “Break a leg,” Aziraphale breathed, giving Crowley’s arms a light squeeze before promptly exiting the backstage area. He needed to have enough time to sort himself out before going onstage to introduce the play. Aziraphale felt distinctly flustered, and made a point of smoothing down his blazer and straightening his red bow-tie.

\---

After the first performance turned out to be a roaring success (some patrons even stayed afterwards to get autographs from the actors), Aziraphale continued to provide “moral support” to Crowley before he went onstage. Crowley would always be pacing in the wings before anyone else took their places—Aziraphale would find him back there, Crowley would look at him expectantly, and Aziraphale would oblige him with a kiss.

Four shows into the 13-show run, Crowley didn’t wait for Aziraphale to gently steady him. Instead, he tilted Aziraphale’s chin up with his gloved hand (the opening scene of the play was meant to take place on the chilly streets of London) and kissed him soundly.

“Don’t mess up your makeup,” Aziraphale told him in between kisses.

“I’m hardly wearing any,” Crowley replied against Aziraphale’s lips.

Soft kisses made the progression into slightly more desperate kisses, with wandering hands and the occasional hair tug.

By the time the last performance night arrived, Crowley and Aziraphale shared what could more accurately be described as a snog. They hadn’t talked at all besides their routine, “Break a leg,” and “thank you,” followed by passionately exploring each others’ mouth with their tongues. They would kiss for longer, and Aziraphale would sneak out of the wings fairly certain that a good portion of Crowley’s makeup had migrated over to his own face.

Aziraphale hadn’t spoken to Crowley one-on-one throughout the run of the play, and he harboured the secret hope that they wouldn’t need to—they would just reach a mutual understanding and fall into a loving and caring relationship that they could carry on in the privacy of their own homes, rather than in the dark and cold wings of the community theatre.

But the more rational part of Aziraphale’s brain feared that the end of the show also marked the end of whatever sort of relationship they had.

“Remember, everyone is expected to stay and help for strike,” Anathema reminded the cast as they warmed up for the final performance. “Then, you are all welcome to Jasmine Cottage for the cast party, which doubles as a solstice party.” Anathema was leaning heavily into the aesthetic of living in a quaint country cottage and hosting vaguely witchy gatherings.

Whether the pre-show kisses had anything to do with it or not, _A Christmas Carol_ had proved to be an all-around success. The cast managed to avoid any serious blunders onstage—lines were largely remembered and scene changes were as smooth as one could hope for them to be. The audiences had been energetic and supportive; the Tadfield Advertiser had featured a big spread on the production, complete with witty quotes from cast members.

Despite the late nights and repetitive nature of the effort, the final show day brought with it a certain melancholy—nothing would ever be quite like this particular combination of people again.

It was getting to Aziraphale as well. He was already looking forward to getting involved in the next production, but he would sorely miss this particular group of people, and the story they were telling onstage.

When he met Crowley in the wings stage right, Aziraphale held the kiss a few extra beats, sliding his thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone and nuzzling their noses together. He no longer gave much of a damn about messing up the makeup—the audience would never notice. “Are you coming to the cast party?” he asked tentatively.

Crowley nodded in response and kissed him one more time. “I’m the star of the show, it wouldn’t be right for me to skip the big celebration, would it?”

Aziraphale snorted and gave Crowley a playful push. “You fiend,” he teased. “Don’t royally cock up the last performance. We have a full house.”

“How could I, I’ve got my good luck kiss. Or bad luck kiss, should I say,” Crowley winked.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Break a leg.”

“Wouldn’t be able to do my gardening with a broken leg, now would I?”

Aziraphale hoped that at some point they could have a serious conversation about whatever this was. He gave Crowley one last piercing stare before slipping through the stage door.

The final performance was not the best performance of the run, but it wasn’t the worst either. The cast got a standing ovation, and stood around in the lobby to take photos afterwards and lament having to give up their period costumes.

Striking the set was an undertaking of great proportions—the cast split up to tackle everything that needed to be done, carrying costumes and props back to the barn and following Bee’s orders, who knew more about the process than either Aziraphale or Anathema.

Newt left early to start setting things up for the party at the cottage. Aziraphale got a ride with Anathema to Jasmine Cottage, still feeling elated at the completion of a successful show run. The exhaustion would set in the next day, as well as the gaping hole of free time where rehearsals and performances used to be. There was also the looming question of what would replace his regular backstage kisses with Crowley, if anything.

The Pulsifer-Device abode was decorated in characteristic Anathema style. Aziraphale had never seen the place before, but something told him that the fairy lights strewn in the garden were there year-round. Eerie wind chimes hung from the trees, and a cobblestone pathway wound its way towards the front door.

The inside of the cottage was cosy and fragrant, a yule log already lit in the hearth. Some cast members were milling about around a table, heavily-laden with a strange assortment of foods. Aziraphale peered at a platter of tartlettes and took one that seemed to have a pumpkin filling. He picked up a glass of champagne and a few more nibbles, then settled in a corner close to the fire. Once everyone arrived, he would make a toast to the whole cast and crew, thank them for all their hard work and dedication.

Aziraphale scanned the crowd. Adam Young was standing surrounded by a group of the youngest cast members, who were all enraptured by whatever he was saying. Mr. Shadwell and Madame Tracy were feeding each other hors d'oeuvres in a slightly inappropriate manner, while Bee stared daggers at them from across the room. He didn’t see Crowley anywhere.

That changed a few moments later when the door burst open and Crowley strutted in. He had removed all traces of his Scrooge costume, as well as any indication of his day job. Instead of loose-fitting outdoor clothes, he’d donned a very tight pair of black trousers. His boots were dressy and came to an elegant point. His shoulders were accentuated by a black blazer with shoulder pads, and underneath that was a waistcoat, hugging his lean chest rather tightly. The auburn hair was tied back in a half-bun, still a little damp from washing out the white powder.

Aziraphale felt his jaw drop at the sight of Crowley and mechanically brought the champagne flute to his lips. His mouth had just gone unbelievably dry. His eyes followed Crowley as he sidled over to the drinks table and poured himself a generous glass.

Crowley started moving towards Aziraphale’s corner, but got interrupted by complimentary cast-mates along the way. Even Bee, whose attendance of the party was already above and beyond, gave Crowley a slap on the back as he manoeuvered his way across the room.

When Crowley finally reached the corner by the hearth, Aziraphale averted his eyes to pretend that he hadn’t been watching the man’s every move. Aziraphale politely stood up and gave Crowley a perfectly normal once-over. “Hello, Crowley. You… look different.”

Crowley gave him that mischievous look thanks to his acrobatic eyebrow. “Have to lean into my stardom, now. You know I signed no less than six autographs after tonight’s performance? Next thing you know I’ll be doing _Macbeth_ in the West End.”

Aziraphale was about to retort when Anathema whipped by them and stood on the hearth to get everyone’s attention. “There’s more food in the kitchen, and you are also welcome to spread out to other parts of the house,” she said above the crowd. “We do have heat lamps on the veranda, if you’d like to admire the back garden.”

“Oh, I think I’d better, don’t you?” Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “Have to see if your landscaping work is all that Anathema talks it up to be.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a mocking bow and then led the way out to the veranda. In the clear expanse of countryside, the stars littered the sky in uneven pocks of light. The heat lamps provided an additional warm light to the otherwise pitch-black yard. It was entirely too dim to make out any defining features of the garden, besides the fact that it had a very biodiverse and sort of controlled chaos to it.

“Lovely,” stated Aziraphale rather sedately, in regard to nothing in particular. Crowley was standing beside him with his hands clasped behind his back. “How long have you been doing landscape gardening? Did you ever consider a different career path?”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged, “‘ve been doing it for ages.” He turned his head to gaze at Aziraphale, the orangey light of the heat lamp reflecting in his dark hazel eyes. “Until recently I’d actually been considering doing something else, or at least moving away from Tadfield.”

“Why did you want to move away?” More importantly, Aziraphale thought, why did he no longer want to move away? Could it possibly be anything to do with Aziraphale? He dared to let himself wonder.

Crowley swallowed and glanced past Aziraphale into the darkness, as if mustering the courage to have a serious conversation for once. “My ex-wife and I are on very good terms...it was an amicable separation, and for the first few years she lived in a town not that far away from here. Pepper didn’t mind splitting time between the two of us. But Pepper’s mum is originally from France, and she eventually wanted to move back there. That also wasn’t a problem at first—we all handled it really well, Pepper loves to travel and didn’t mind going the distance back and forth. But then, I don’t know exactly what happened, but Pepper had some massive falling out with her mates from school here. She very abruptly decided she wanted to spend most of the time with her mum in France, even when I suggested just changing schools. So, long story short, I didn’t really see much point sticking around Tadfield, even though I’m the only bloody landscaper with any taste in this town.”

“Oh,” marvelled Aziraphale with a hand drawn to his mouth, “ _that’s_ why you were always staring daggers at Adam during rehearsal. He used to be friends with Pepper, didn’t he?”

Crowley crossed his arms and wagged his head in mockery of Aziraphale. “I maintain that that boy is never up to any good, even if Pepper claims they’ve made up and are friends again.”

At that, Aziraphale felt a small part of him deflate slightly, even though he was glad Pepper and Adam had worked out their differences. “Ah, so that’s why you don’t want to leave anymore, then? Is Pepper going to start spending more time here again?”

Crowley cracked a grin. “No, actually, that’s not why. Pepper actually had to go back to France yesterday. To finish exams. She won’t be back til right before New Year’s.”

Aziraphale stared dumbly at him in return. He still couldn’t work out why that bit of knowledge would elicit a grin in Crowley. And such a mischievous grin, at that.

“Which means....” Crowley continued, agonisingly slow to get to the point. “Which means that I can stay in my house tonight… and there’ll be room for one extra person.” He was inching towards Aziraphale, turning so that they were now face to face. “No show call tomorrow. Don’t even have any landscaping appointments. I’m incredibly free...”

Aziraphale was starting to get the gist. “That’s funny, I don’t have any obligations tomorrow either. I’m going to terribly miss directing the cast—”

Crowley wriggled his eyebrows wickedly, and Aziraphale could tell that an awfully suggestive comment was on the tip of his wily tongue. Before he had the chance to utter anything embarrassing, Aziraphale surged forward and silenced Crowley with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> it will perhaps surprise no one that i was once in a production of a christmas carol, but as i was writing this i found that i remembered very little about the play itself lolol  
> thank you for reading! find me on tumblr [@georginabulsara](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/) (or my side-blog [@georginawriting](https://georginawriting.tumblr.com/)), and feel free to leave a comment if you want!
> 
> I have two other Human AUs if you enjoyed this story! Find them [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543283/chapters/51356545) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567511/chapters/59331382)  
> it is also possible that i will write a sequel to this in crowley's pov


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